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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26032882">Deus ex Machina</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Amarathine_Carrion/pseuds/The_Amarathine_Carrion'>The_Amarathine_Carrion</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Agender Character, Alternate Universe - College/University, Background Relationships, Character Development, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Other, Sylvix Big Bang (Fire Emblem), Trans Felix Hugo Fraldarius, unintentional misgendering</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:47:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,939</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26032882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Amarathine_Carrion/pseuds/The_Amarathine_Carrion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A recent breakup with Mercedes leaves Sylvain depressed and dependent until Ingrid convinces him to come with her to see their college’s production of Twelfth Night. The person playing Viola steals his heart away, providing Sylvain with new insight and direction.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sylvix Big Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Deus ex Machina</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Friday nights suck now. </em>
</p><p>Sylvain drums his fingers against the table, wishing, more or less, he could replace them with his head. Whatever nonsense is coming from the television in the living room isn’t working to drown out the repetitive thoughts; nor can he drown out his sorrows in liquor like he’d been meaning to. Ingrid was currently sitting across from him, animated hands explaining something he stopped following a long time ago.</p><p>He gives a nod or a shake when he feels it’s appropriate. He’s good enough at reading people that he doesn’t really <em> have </em> to listen when he’s not actively trying to impress them. Unfortunately, Ingrid is his oldest friend, and she knows when he isn’t paying attention to her—and why.</p><p>“Sylvain. It’s been three months and you still can’t hold a conversation.” </p><p>She spears a sausage onto her fork but doesn’t eat it, twirling the cutlery while she looks him over instead. “I’m worried about you.”</p><p>Sylvain hums, acknowledging the small pang in his chest, and tries for a smile. He’s not going to fool her, especially with something as weak as that, but that isn’t the point. The point is that he’s trying. He wants her to see that, even if it still feels like nothing to him. </p><p>“I’m not great.” He admits. “I guess I don’t feel much like talking. I think it’s because it always ends up being about her.”</p><p><em> Mercedes. </em>He still avoided saying her name out loud. Sylvain never imagined he’d be heartbroken over one girl. Shouldn’t have been such a heartbreaker before. It’s probably divine punishment for being such a dick. </p><p>Ingrid finishes her sausage and swallows, holding up a finger to indicate that they aren’t through talking while she follows it with a glass of water. She exhales slowly, creasing her eyebrows like she’s already thought long and hard about the possibility of what she was about to say hurting him.</p><p>“Sylvain… she’s moved on. You have to stop living in the past. You’re going to fail your classes, and then what—go back home to your dad?”</p><p>Sylvain cringes. “It’s not that bad…I won’t fail. And I’m not going back there.” </p><p>He’d rather die penniless. It’s an over-dramatic take, sure, but a genuine one. His father only saw him as he saw everything else that existed in his life—an investment. He was supposed to be here studying business—supposed to inherit the company, but Sylvain hadn’t declared anything yet. All he had going in his life was five classes of general garbage that reminded him of all the worst parts of high school. Even the parties didn’t seem as fun anymore.</p><p>Nothing seemed as fun without her. Sylvain’s still learning how to deal with the absence of someone he shared the last three years of his life with. He hasn’t discovered much in the way of coping. Mercedes’s favorite chair was pushed to the corner—he couldn’t find it within himself to throw it out yet. The side of her bed was empty and cold, so he piled it with pillows and blankets. Now he just wakes up exhausted and all tangled up in the mess. </p><p>“I don’t want you to.” Ingrid says softly. Her hand reaches across the narrow table to curl around his, delicate and half his size, but heavier than the stone that sits upon his heart. “That’s why I’m here. We’re all here for you.”</p><p>Sylvain lays his other hand on top of it, absorbing the warmth, and allows the mask to slip a bit. They’re talking. It’s short, but meaningful, and it’s the closest to normal he’s felt for a long time.</p><p>It’s progress. He still hasn’t gotten that therapist Ingrid has been nagging him about—but he’s just not ready for that. He hardly wanted the company of his friends for the first few weeks. Getting intimate with a stranger was the last thing he wanted right now.</p><p>Funny how that used to be his favorite thing to do. Things change—and change again. </p><p>“Come on.” She retracts her hand and jumps up, practically pushing him out of the chair he’s been slumped forward in. “I’ve never seen you mope so much over a breakup. I’m taking you to a play tonight.”</p><p>He blinks. “A play? Where? I didn’t even know you liked them.”</p><p>Ingrid shakes her head for a reason he can’t ascertain. A blush crosses her face so quickly she could easily pretend it didn’t happen—and she does. Instead, she grabs her keys and heads straight for the door, crossing her arms impatiently when she sees he’s still standing by his seat. </p><p>“I’m trying something new.” She offers in a careful tone. “<em>You</em> need to revisit some of your old hobbies—something that doesn’t revolve around flirting with women.”</p><p>Her eyes flutter to the picture of him wearing Mickey ears with his arm around Mercedes, pinned high on the board to her left. Sylvain remembers that trip vividly. They spent her twenty-second birthday in Disneyland and he’d almost proposed right there on the streets. Five months later she’d broken up with him and it was too late to return the ring—Which wasn’t the greatest outcome for his heart or his bank account. </p><p>“Ouch, Ing.” He clutches his chest to feign injury; It’s not hard when there’s already pain to pull from permeating the surface. “I’m not sure I’d call theatre a hobby. I haven’t seen a show in like, six years.” </p><p>She jingles the keys at him, indicating for him to move faster. “That’s exactly why we’re going. You need something to remind you that you’re capable of variety—something that you never shared with her.”</p><p>She turns and actually leaves him there with the door wide open, peeking her head back around the corner of the hallway to call his name as he dawdles putting on his coat. </p><p>His heart catches on a hook with every alternate beat, but he steps over the threshold, locking the door behind him with hands that tremble just a little less each passing minute.</p><p>“I’m coming—Ingrid! I’m coming!”</p>
<hr/><p>It’s colder than he thought it’d be, but Sylvain has never minded that. He’s always found the chill of your breath in front of you to be a mesmerizing thing. Cold he can handle—it can be remedied by layers. Heat bothered him, because he could strip down to his bare skin and still suffocate.</p><p>As it is, they don’t have far to go. Sylvain lives in the dorms and apparently Ingrid’s taking him to their school’s production. This fall semester it’s Twelfth Night. He didn’t even think they did Shakespeare like that at this little community college, but apparently it was a big deal to the theatre professor. She came from New York and was used to participating in opulent Broadway productions. </p><p>Ingrid starts telling him what she knows about the play as they cut across the field to the theatre. He knows a little already—he read it in his senior year, but never got the chance to see it. He lets her go on how she pleases though, blanking under the bright fairy lights lining the trees—no doubt strung up by some ambitious art majors with no regard or fear for the strict rules established by their president.</p><p>“There’s a new lead this semester. They’re a freshman so they’ve never acted here before, but they’re really good. Leonie was telling me how the person they cast dropped out due to a family emergency and they desperately needed to find someone right away.”</p><p>Leonie was the girl from Ingrid’s gym Ingrid hasn’t stopped telling Sylvain about since they met a month ago in their bicycling class. She was probably the source of Ingrid’s blushing earlier. Sylvain had no idea she was also involved in theatre here, but with how enthusiastic she seemed to be from Ingrid’s stories, he wasn’t too surprised. He’d love to tease Ingrid about it—later though—right now it was a little too close to the wound he’s trying to heal. </p><p>He tries not to be jealous over the free tickets waiting for them at will call. </p><p>The seats are old and uncomfortable. Sylvain shifts in them, feeling mildly claustrophobic, until Ingrid reaches over to grab his shoulder and offers to switch so he’s on the outside of the aisle. Even after he’s settled he finds himself antsy and in need of a distraction. He’d forgotten how dark it gets before they raise the curtain. The audience is unusually quiet. Sylvain’s spent the past few months holed up in his room crestfallen, so the lack of stimulation he was promised is particularly disheartening. </p><p>He sighs, letting his eyes droop to take in the appearance of his hands. They’re clasped anxiously in his lap. The low light of students buried in the screen of their cellphones doesn’t cast well enough to make out any details that could occupy his mind. He doesn’t want to chance lifting his head and getting caught searching the crowd for a pretty face. Ingrid would be sure to see him. </p><p>
  <em> What a depressing place this is.  </em>
</p><p>“Sylvain, look up. It’s about to start.” </p><p>Sylvain does, and he wishes he hadn’t. </p><p>Her long luxurious hair is cropped now, but she’s unmistakable. Mercedes stands at the crux of the stage, center between the curtain and the pit, beaming. Sylvain’s ears are full of cotton as he fumbles with the program, flipping it open to the cast and crew section to search for her name. There it is, under <em> sound management </em> , right next to a picture of her and an attractive brunette he discovers is playing the role of Lady Olivia: <em> Dorothea Arnault.  </em></p><p>How the hell had he never known about this? </p><p>Mercedes is giving directions, he gathers, by the way she gestures to the exit signs and demonstrates silencing her phone. Sylvain’s iPhone XR sits like a cement block in his right front pocket, already turned off. He puts his hand over it anyway, anything to pull him away from the numbness of his face and dull thud of a headache starting in his temple. Seeing her in reality is so much more nauseating than he predicted, even as far away as he is and how unlikely it is that she’s spotted him. </p><p>Mercedes always had a gentle glimmer around her, but now she openly sparkles with Dorothea’s arm catching around her waist to grab her attention. Sylvain watches them walk off together, the picture of intimacy, like a personal halo, tailored fit. </p><p>She looks happy. She looks happy and he’s miserable about it, and even more miserable about the fact that he wants her to be miserable and how much of an ass that makes him.</p><p>Sylvain crumples the cheap, loosely stapled paper in his fist and makes a mental note to apologize to Mother Nature afterward. The sad little ball becomes lost somewhere between the row of feet in front of him. He stares at the spot he kicked at through the sound of the curtain opening until the second scene arrives and the most attractive voice he’s ever heard in his life makes him raise his head. </p><p>“What country, friends, is this?”</p><p>Sylvain watches, with rapt attention, as the lead Ingrid mentioned completely dominates the stage. All of the rumors were true, they’re damn talented. Sylvain is able to follow the plot the entire way through due to their clear pacing and crisp diction. One thing Ingrid hadn’t mentioned, though, was that they were super freaking hot. </p><p>For five acts Sylvain sits enraptured. Not long enough, is the opinion he’d give, if someone were to ask.</p><p>Viola pulls their hat off at the close of the play, letting the silky sheen of a navy black braid cascade over their collarbones and Sylvain stands before they even take their bow, silencing the churn of his stomach with the clapping of his hands.</p><p>He’s in a daze as he waits in the sea of families and friends, unsure of what he’s even there to say or do. He needs to find the lead and tell them how incredible they are, that’s priority number one. The entire cast was fantastic, but that woman...he has to get to know her. He’s never felt so wildly attracted to someone. It’s not just that she’s beautiful; she carries something Sylvain has no name for, but absolutely needs to obtain.</p><p>Finally, she exits, dressed down in tights and character shoes, messy hair, and a huge sweater that leaves most to the imagination. It’s subtle and simple and suddenly Sylvain is terrified, struck like a deer in headlights waiting for the inevitable crash that would end him. Sylvain chokes on his tongue and panics. The last thing Olivia says before the final act is adjourned by the fool comes tumbling out.</p><p>“He hath been most notoriously abused.” Sylvain wants to die before he reaches the end. He can’t stop himself.</p><p>Viola blinks. A small nod is sent Sylvain’s way but she hums distractedly, her eyes scoping the crowd elsewhere until it lands on a specific person somewhere far in the back. Sylvain doesn’t take his eyes off of her as she passes with a reticent “<em>Thank you for coming to see the show. </em>” She smells of powder and hairspray, like everyone else, but it’s the least overpowering thing about her—he’d even call it fragrant. </p><p>She’s lost to him sooner than he found her. Sylvain frowns and turns every which way, rising on his tiptoes, despite the blessing of his height, to search. He spots Ingrid immediately, clearing a path with her elbows more than her words. They meet halfway and meander over to a free spot against the wall.</p><p>‘Ingrid, my favorite girl.” Sylvain claps a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder, drawing her in for a hug. “You sly minx, did you see her and just know that once I did I’d fall in love?” </p><p>Ingrid wrinkles her nose and her brow in a confused succession—finishes with a sigh. She shakes her head when Sylvain indicates to Viola, speaking to a taller, navy haired figure that could only be her father, partially obscured by the others down the hall. Ingrid seems hesitant to address the dopey-eyed expression on Sylvain’s face, retrieving the program that she stashed away neatly folded from a pocket in her purse.</p><p>“Did you read the name of the lead?”</p><p>
  <em> Felix Hugo Fraldarius.  </em>
</p><p>Nothing else registers in his head except those nineteen letters that are all Sylvain needs to hear to know he’s fallen into some deeply unexpected shit.</p>
<hr/><p>Okay, so Felix is a man’s name, right? Maybe. It’s kind of old fashioned, but so is Sylvain. </p><p>None of that should matter. He’s open minded. Most of his friends are queer and he’s supported them from the moment they told him. He’s no stranger to questioning his sexuality, but Sylvain has considered himself straight since he was eight years old, flirting with the Sophmore his local Baskin Robins hired over the summer, asking for a dozen samples before he pulled out his empty pockets, winked, then skipped away. </p><p>So, he needs a few days here to come to terms with this. He’s turned down some objectively drop dead gorgeous guys who, in hindsight, could have made for a fun time if he’d slapped himself awake in time. In fact, he met this production’s Antonio, Claude, at a pride parade two years ago and he’s still as handsome now as he was then. What makes Felix stand out? Why is he so different from them?</p><p>The show runs for two weekends, Thursday-Sunday, and Sylvain is there for every single one. He’s the best regular they’ve ever had. It doesn’t take long for him to make friends with the cast and crew—minus Mercedes, of course, but by closing night he’s even exchanged a few words with Dorothea. He isn’t trying to be creepy about it when he greets the actors as they come offstage, and he tries not to stare at Felix, yet it’s impossible not to when Felix commands so much attention just by his natural demeanor. </p><p>Sylvain is charismatic, he’s always been charismatic, so he shouldn’t be surprised that he’s thriving in such an environment. The buzzing blur of theatre is beginning to wear its brand down into his bones. </p><p>It’s this wild, instinctual need, this craving for something so completely alive that everything else fades to a near silent static. Sylvain sits in the front row, mouthing the lines alongside the actors. He shuffles in his seat, predicting the movements, feeling the itch to get up and react to the events he’s seen close to a dozen times. He isn’t thinking safe, there’s some drawing him to the theatre—Felix, yes, but something else, something he’s missed. <em> Oh, </em>he has missed this. </p><p>It’s overwhelming, so he tries to play it down. He’s still grieving from Mercedes dumping him for Dorothea, angry that despite how close they were she never bothered to tell him that she was into women. He’s just lonely—maybe a little desperate—but he isn’t gay, is he? The more he goes to see Felix’s performances, the less the excuses Sylvain makes hold up.</p><p>He just...likes Felix. Sylvain likes what he sees. He likes how Felix doesn’t mince words and the actor’s fierce independence. Every time Felix enters, Sylvain notices a new quirk, a slightly altered inflection, and, of course, the flawless transformation of Viola to Cesario to Viola again. His favorite part of the night, though, is when Sylvain sneaks backstage to find Leonie and comes across Felix himself—grumpy little thing that he is.</p><p><em> It’s okay</em>, he tells himself. <em> It’s okay</em>.</p><p>“<em>We’re going to Denny’s to celebrate, want to come? </em>” </p><p>Sylvain did want to come, and Leonie invited Ingrid too, so he didn’t see the harm in it. He ends up sitting across from Felix, glaring at him behind his forkful of French toast. Sylvain sees the harm in it then. Felix is going to hurt him with those eyes—and Sylvain wants him to. The more they narrowed, the faster the pace of his heart. The faster the pace of his heart, the more he wanted Felix to take him to the bathroom, lock the stall,  and push him against the wall, shred any hesitation that Sylvain was holding on to claiming he wasn’t into Felix because he was, he so fucking was. </p><p>“Stop staring.”</p><p><em> Shit. </em>Usually Felix ignored him when he did, but tonight might be the last night they see each other so maybe he was feeling a bit chivalrous. Sylvain has been playing the flirting game for a long time—winning at it too—so he notices the opening, and eagerly steps up to the plate. </p><p>“You first, Felix.” He twirls a fry between his fingers as he turns on the charm. Sexy. Smoldering. Confident. It works until Felix rolls his eyes and crooks his neck slightly to the side and Sylvain catches a hint of his collarbone under his loose sweater. He ends up with mashed potato between his palm and his knuckles and a blush that could rival the currently sloshed director two seats over, squinting at the bottom of her flask. </p><p>Felix actually laughs, inaudible over the raucous mess that is theatre kids unleashed from their duties, riding the final wave of endorphins from a job well done, but Sylvain sees it. Amusement sets level like the sun, glittering golden gemstones under the arch of his brow. All Sylvain wants to do is run his finger over that small smile that’s sparked to life specifically for him. <em> Chill. Remember the game. </em><em>Think baseball. </em>Sylvain picks up the bat, watches for the pitch, and swings. </p><p>“Can you blame a guy? You’re the star of the show, it’s only natural you get some attention.” </p><p>The smile fades, but it’s natural. Felix’s jaw relaxes into a gentle slope.<em> Very kissable</em>. Sylvain shoves the thought away. The din of the diner continues to rumble in his ears, but nothing truly distracts him from the observation that Felix’s eyes are wider now; one of his hands is within reach, but Sylvain won’t push for that just yet. Felix is slowly warming up to him. It’s nice to share a moment like this, albeit amiss the clatter. There’s something else Sylvain wants to explore, something he’s even more hesitant to touch, but he can’t do it here. </p><p>“We all worked hard.” Felix lays his knife and fork to the side, wiping his hands off before he continues. “I’m not special; save some gratitude for the rest of the cast.” </p><p>Sylvain disagrees with only one of those statements. Felix is special. He’s special enough to give Sylvain a reason to throw all those half-empty bottles of alcohol away. He’s special enough to drag Sylvain out of his dorm every night so he can show a different side of his character. He’s special enough to fill Sylvain with a heat that doesn’t go away when he unwraps his scarf and slides out of his jeans, crawling into bed without the pile of pillows pushing him toward the edge. It takes a lot these days to make Sylvain feel dizzy when he’s completely sober. He hardly knows Felix, but just the fact that he wants to is enough for Sylvain to see there’s something special indeed. </p><p>“Plenty of gratitude left, Fe.” Sylvain flashes his teeth, the nickname rolling effortlessly off his tongue. Felix doesn’t tell him to stop. Sylvain thinks that’s the best compliment he’s gotten from Sir Scoffs a Lot yet. </p><p>They say that post-midnight Dennys is a no man’s land. That it exists in some liminal space one can only accept, never understand. <em> It’s true, </em>Sylvain thinks, <em> sit down for one meal with a table full of thespians and within five minutes they’ll convince you you’re Rod Sterling smack in the inescapable depths of the twilight zone</em>. This isn’t even the after party and it’s almost 2AM. </p><p>Oh yeah, Sylvain goes to that too. </p><p>It’s somehow louder than the Denny’s. Everyone files into Professor Manuela’s house like a traveling troupe of clowns returning to the base tent of their circus. They’ve hardly settled in before their Sir Andrew Aguecheek, a huge but lovable meathead who Sylvain remembers as the first person to shake his hand and tell him his name—Balthus—rips his shirt open, screaming for karaoke. Manuela shakes her head, claiming a migraine, but eventually loses the battle to Caspar and Ferdinand’s enthusiastic agreement. Someone (Claude) spiked the punch, yet Sylvain is abstaining for tonight. There’s something more important he’s in the midst of discovering. </p><p>There’s a certain intimacy that develops between actors. Sylvain can see it. He’s jealous for it. This is what he wants, to feel that rush of connection again—in an entirely new way.<em> To be human</em>, he realizes, <em> this is what it’s like to feel alive again.  </em></p><p>In the kitchen, Leonie presses her lips against the corner of Ingrid’s mouth before she fills a little red solo cup up to the line. Sylvain has never seen her so look openly affectionate. He’s happy for her. Looks like everyone really is out for a change. <em> Huh</em>. </p><p>Alright, but where is Felix? </p><p>Sylvain pushes his way past waving limbs and slurred statements until he spots him. There’s a nook by the window where Felix sits, sipping, somehow looking regal and unbothered by the chaos. </p><p>“Hey. This seat taken?”</p><p>Felix takes another sip, cheeks darkening enough to match the cheap cup, and gestures to the empty floor before him. </p><p>“What seat?”</p><p>Sylvain laughs and plops himself down on the carpet, crossing his legs to fit his ankles comfortably underneath. “This one I guess”. </p><p>Felix’s inebriated smirk is brighter than the sliver of the moon peeking at them from the corner of the half-drawn curtain. He sets his cup down and turns the full intensity of his gaze onto a very unprepared Sylvain. This is the most unguarded he’s ever seen Felix, on or off the stage. It’s mesmerizing, the high angle of his cheekbones and the easy way in which he holds his body just shy of slumping. The pace of his breathing and heavy eyelids offer just a hint of primal instinct lying within. Felix screams of passion—of determination and hunger. Sylvain grips his knee and hopes for all that comes to the surface to reel him in. </p><p>“Have you ever acted before?” </p><p>Huh. He wasn’t expecting that one. It’s a pleasant invitation.</p><p>“Yeah, a little. When I was in eight grade and the first year of High School I took theatre as an elective.” Sylvain scratches his chin and sums up the end of his memories with an obviously embittered tone. “My father thought it was a waste of time though, so I let it go.”</p><p>He didn’t realize just how much of a regret it was until he said it. Sylvain’s hands itch to grab at his stomach or his chest, to reassure his heart and calm his nervous energy. He doesn’t want to think about the argument that led to that decision and yet how that has somehow brought him here. He doesn’t want to think about upcoming finals at a party for a cast he wasn’t even in around three-something AM in the damn morning. </p><p>“I see.” Felix really seems like he does. He doesn’t offer any fabricated sympathy, just an acknowledgement, which Sylvain appreciates. He’s used to people treating him differently when they find out his father is rich. The prestige and expectation he’s carried from a young age really messed with his ability to maintain genuine relationships with other people. He’s starting to really like this guy. Oops.</p><p>Felix’s fingers seem to need something to do while he’s engaging in conversation. Sylvain watches them as they pull the pins from the stiff bun on the top of his head, grimacing at a few of the tangled pieces. He almost offers to help. Almost. Sylvain bites his tongue instead. </p><p>“If you have the time and the drive, you should try it again. It seems to come naturally to you. All you need is theory, and practice.” </p><p>Felix’s hair is longer than Sylvain expected up close, healthy and shiny and ten times as enticing. Sylvain feels a buzzing begin in his palms to smooth the tangles and steal him away. He swallows. “You think so?”</p><p>“Yeah. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” Felix rakes through the knots automatically, unaware of what the innocent routine is doing to Sylvain. He isn’t capable of the sort of deception Sylvain’s mind would supply, so Sylvain reminds himself to breathe, stop looking into it, and keep it cordial.</p><p>“I know.” <em> You’re the son of a businessman, act like it. </em>“Thank you.”</p><p>Manuela groans loudly behind them, drooling into the arm of the sofa where she’s draped over in a grandiose pose. How she’s able to maintain a performance while she sleeps is a mystery, but it can’t be good for her. Sylvain and Felix both rise to their feet to move her before she falls and breaks her neck.</p><p>“I’ll take care of it.” Felix swoops forward to pick her up like she’s nothing but a basket of feathers. Is he hiding some muscles away under that oversized black sweater? Sylvain might be a little impressed. He might be thinking about it a little too much as he watches Felix take to the stairs without issue, hiking her closer to his body without so much as a single falter in his breath. </p><p>By the time Felix returns, the sun is peeking over the hills and everyone is eager to head home. Sylvain hugs many of his new friends goodbye, but reserves a special smile for Felix and offers his hand out to shake.</p><p>Felix takes it, and the little note of paper with Sylvain’s phone number on it, cleverly shuffled out from the edge of his sleeve.</p><p>“No pressure.” Sylvain is careful, oh so careful, not to let the note of hope ring loud enough to be perceived. “If you want to, just text me sometime.” </p><p>Felix stares at the number long enough to have it memorized multiple times over. When he finally raises his head, there is something serious blazing between them that makes the melody cycle louder, pounding away in the doldrums of Sylvain’s ears.</p><p>“Okay.”</p>
<hr/><p>The next few weeks are a whirlwind, but a welcome one. Sylvain hustles to settle his affairs. He deep cleans his apartment, tossing or donating the random accumulated crap, and starts grocery shopping for actual food instead of filling his fridge with takeout and beer. He calls Mercedes to apologize, then congratulates her on her success with the show and her new relationship. When she picks up, Sylvain can hear the tears in her eyes. Within five minutes he finds himself plugging her new address into his phone so he can visit her instead. They spend the entire day catching up on her couch and confiding in each other just like they used to. Dorothea is as amazing as Sylvain thought she would be, wise and brave in all of the ways that compliments Mercedes’ strengths.</p><p>Sylvain’s jealousy takes a positive spin. It’s not only Ingrid treading water with him, inching toward the shore. Friends, new and old, are looking forward to the future with him. He’s grateful to have them there to push him forward. He’s on his way, and with their hands willing to pull him along when he needs it, it doesn’t seem so devastating after all.</p><p>Without hangovers or migraines from a poor sleeping schedule Sylvain takes the opportunity to study what he came here for. It’s boring, but bearable, especially when he can count on a daily life update from Felix. They’re both busy as the semester comes to a close, and it’s a good thing, because there’s no rushing into what he hopes becomes his next most valuable relationship. Sylvain is learning the very important lesson of allowing intimacy to blossom at whatever pace it decides.</p><p>Felix, he discovers, really isn’t that complicated once you’ve gotten past the initial standoffishness. He loves cats, and sends Sylvain pictures of the two that he had to leave behind when he went off to college. George is an orange and white thirteen year old yowler with a grumpy face and an indomitable spirit. In most of the videos and pictures saved onto Sylvain’s phone, he’s hiding in the hood of Felix’s hair, shiny yellow-green slits like a neon warning sign for those who dare approach his human. Marceline is a sleek, young midnight black cat with amber eyes eerily similar to Felix. She’s quiet; there’s only one meow Sylvain can hear in the video where Felix shushes her while dumping a cup of food into her bowl. He rewinds the moment again and again. They’re all so cute despite the dignified names that Sylvain has to put the phone down sometimes, fighting the urge to say something embarrassing about it. </p><p>Despite the simplicity of Felix’s character, there’s plenty left to impress him. Felix is smart and athletic, working the early shift as a gym trainer a few times a week before heading to afternoon classes, and filling in the spaces he doesn’t eat, sleep, and breathe theatre as a paid tutor. Sylvain feels like he has a lot of catching up to do, so he works hard at securing some therapy sessions and acing his exams. Needless to say, there isn’t much time for them to have full conversations, much less hang out, so Sylvain is surprised when Felix invites him on what he prays to any force in the universe that’s left to listen is a date.</p><p>“<em>A</em><em> group of us are going to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. I tried to tell them I was too busy but they need two more people for their stupid ticket discount, do you want to come?” </em></p><p><em> More than anything else in the world. </em>Sylvain wanted to say, but he’d rather save the heavier words for a face to face confession, so he runs through a breathing exercise his therapist gave him, and takes a few minutes to send his reply.</p><p>“Y<em>eah, sounds like a lot of fun! I just got out of my last final so I’m free from this point on. Send me the info?”  </em></p><p>It’s a Thursday afternoon that they all decide to meet up, and a Friday morning when Sylvain admits to himself he’s falling in love. </p><p>Sylvain slips on a sky blue sweater before he stuffs his scarf into the inner pocket of his coat. He decides against a hat, mussing his hair with some pleasant smelling holding product instead. Nervous and overexcited, he checks his wallet once for his IDs and cash, and his jeans twice for his keys, then takes an Uber to Boston. Assistant Stage Manager Annette is the first to greet Sylvain when he approaches the front of the building, waving enthusiastically from atop the little stone wall where she’s perched. </p><p>“Sylvain!” She cups her mouth with dainty daisy covered white gloves. “We’re over here!”</p><p>Sylvain jogs the rest of the way, inhaling more of the chill than he meant as he spots Felix emerging from the back of the group. There’s more people here than he expected. He joins the group of Felix, Balthus, Dorothea, Mercedes, Annette, Caspar, and an emerald haired person he assumes is Caspar’s partner by the casual way their arms rest around his waist and the dreamy expression they get while laying their chin on the top of his bluebird nest of a head. </p><p>It’s a bit awkward at first, stumbling over plans while fumbling through the doors. Despite the fact that most of them showed up together to wait for Sylvain, they still haven’t figured out exactly what they want to do, so they begin as a disorganized clump. Within a few minutes of wandering around, the group naturally starts to drift away to different exhibits and floors. Caspar and Balthus decide to find something to eat, while Mercedes and Annette flit off to the gift shop. Dorothea and Linhardt drag behind the rest, deep in thought, occasionally exchanging their critique and appreciation. Sylvain has heard it all many times over with the upbringing he’s had. His mother is an aesthete like no one else he knows, and he’s inherited her eye along with aspects of her passion. Felix, on the other hand, openly appears bored. </p><p>Sylvain pokes at his rib with an elbow, earning a superficial glare. “Anywhere in particular you want to go?”</p><p>Felix shakes his head at first, and continues to walk forward, staring through the artwork like they were children’s scribbles, which, arguably, Sylvain would concede some are. He’s much more interested in studying Felix right now than showing off his knowledge however, and he treasures the silence that allows him to do so. Felix’s footwork is soft yet agile, treading slightly ahead with enough speed to draw Sylvain’s eyes to the effortless lift of his sternum and all the lithe muscles that ripple underneath his tight black turtleneck and slim fit jeans. It’s only two basic articles of clothing, but on the current model it’s transformed into the masterpiece of the entire damn building. </p><p>Sylvain almost smacks into him, stuck as he is in the vision, when they reach the end of the first exhibit. He makes a habit of checking his coat instead, pretending to adjust the fit that he already made certain was perfect before he left. Felix looks ansty, like there’s something he wants to say. It’s unlike him to hold back, at least from the opinion Sylvain has formed over the last month or so of talking. </p><p>“Where next?”</p><p>Felix’s shoulder draws close to Sylvain’s bicep as they linger by the stairs to the second floor. He doesn’t seem to want to go in that direction though. His attention is pulled to the fogged window some ways away to their left. </p><p>“Outside.” Felix decides. “In the garden.” </p><p>There isn’t much to see there this time of year, but Sylvain acquiesces. After all, this is probably close to his tenth time visiting the museum. He’s here to see Felix, whether he knows it or not. So, when Felix leads him straight to a bench in the middle of the bare scenery blanketed with a thin sheet of snow, he merely brushes the small pile to the ground and joins him. </p><p>Felix looks up at the sky and does not move again for several minutes. Fresh snowflakes fall on his cheeks, the crown of his head, even his eyelashes, but he merely blinks them away. They melt slower where they catch in his braid, building up until they resemble the swirl of a galaxy, barely visible in the string lights dangling many feet away. His eyes, too, twinkle with layers of reflection. The frost of his breath holds a mystical quality, rising like smoke from the wick of a recently extinguished candle. Sylvain holds his own, and follows the trail to the heavens, seeking the same prayer. </p><p>The silence is among one of the most comforting experiences of Sylvain’s life. It’s an extension of trust he’s, until now, shared with no one. It’s the most wonderful kind of ethereal, to recognize when you are spellbound, with no urge to break it nor contemplate why. The stars emerge in the same pattern he’s seen every night for every day of his life and yet, tonight he can see where they connect. Sylvain counts the constellations with the tip of his nose while Felix’s hand flutters closer and closer to his until the warmth of his palm finally comes to cover it. </p><p>“You’re cold.” Felix doesn’t need to whisper, but he does. Perhaps, it’s because he’s afraid Sylvain will pull away if he does anything more to break the magic of the moment. Or, perhaps it’s because he’s certain that Sylvain won’t. “Sorry. We can go inside again, if you want.”</p><p>“No!” Sylvain coughs, embarrassed by how loud his response is in contrast to the gentle offer. “I’m fine. I’m used to the cold.” He looks down at the point where Felix’s fingers twist into his own. They’re long and delicate. Nimble, he knows, from the way he saw Felix carding through the fabric of his costumes offstage, and, much later, coaxing the knots from his hair during the party. “I like it.”</p><p>The snow picks up. Sylvain’s unguarded face begins to numb. He could pull his scarf up over his nose but he doesn’t want to let go of Felix’s hand, and it would be awkward to try with only his other one. Felix must be feeling the effects too, given that the tip of his nose is pink and he occasionally sniffles. Sylvain is just about to offer his scarf or his coat or his entire bleeding heart when Felix hits him with an out of the blue statement. </p><p>“My father didn’t always support me.” </p><p>His eyes are no longer sharp and distant, occupied by the glow of the moon. They’re focused on Sylvain now, placated and <em> knowing</em>. </p><p>“He didn’t?” Sylvain flips their hands around and re-laces their fingers so he can squeeze. It’s an unconscious act and Felix takes to it well. He squeezes back with the confidence of someone who’s done this hundreds of times before.</p><p>“No.” <em> Is he coming closer? </em>Felix’s hips are inches from Sylvain’s now, and he pulls their hands up to rest on the edge of their touching thighs. There are so many more reasons why Sylvain wants to scream. “Mercedes told me you and your father don’t exactly agree when it comes to your future.”</p><p>“Ah.” Sylvain supplies, simple man that he is in his spiritual dunce cap and shiny Rudolph red nose. Single word sentences are all he can process now: <em> Felix. Hand. Mine. </em>Finals are over, brain cells can go on a temporary vacation. No need to slap himself awake. </p><p>It’s fine. </p><p>“You’re the one who has to live with it. You should choose the path you’re most likely to stick with. Don’t bother pushing through something you aren’t fully committed to. It makes everyone unhappy when you do.”</p><p>The four sentences are the most Felix has ever said to him in succession, and the heaviest words he’s heard in years. Heavy because it’s the truth, and because it’s a <em> lived </em> truth, Sylvain can tell. Felix is pushing beyond his distress to meet with him, save him if he thinks there’s any way that he can. Felix cares. </p><p>“I’ve never been good at comforting others. I hope that helps.”</p><p>Sylvain is falling. Fallen. Buried deep beneath the snow.</p><p>“You’re better at it than you think you are. It helps. Thanks, Felix.” </p><p>“Yeah, you’re welcome, or—whatever.” Felix’s huffs start to sound a little painful, and Sylvain assumes his flushed, shivering skin isn’t just from the conversation or their slight contact. He shakes out his hand before removing his coat and drapes it over Felix’s shoulders. Felix looks at him like he is some impossible creature coming out of the woods to tame, as if he isn’t some mythical being in a category all his own.</p><p>He takes the coat though, and Sylvain’s other hand. He doesn’t let go until they’re inside again, and if that’s the only thing Sylvain takes home with him, he’ll sleep well tonight.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em> You have one notification from Fewix Hwugo Frwadawius 🐱 </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Fewix: </em> <em>Hey. 3:21PM </em></p><p>
  <em> Sylvain: What’s up, Felix? 3:22PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fewix: How many classes are you taking this semester? 3:22PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sylvain: Uhhhh, four I think? Five? 3:24PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sylvain: Definitely five. I just checked, why? 3:31PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fewix: I have a favor to ask. 3:33PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sylvain: yeah??? 3:43PM </em>
</p><p><em> Fewix</em>: <em> Take Acting in Shakespeare 1B 300. Tues/Thurs @ 1PM. I’m the student assistant in the class and we need more people to sign up. I think you would benefit from it, even if you don’t end up auditioning for a show. </em> 3:47PM</p><p><em> Sylvain</em>: <em> I’m not sure… 3:50PM </em></p><p>
  <em> Fewix: Why not? 3:51PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fewix: I’d like to see you. 3:53PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fewix: Don’t make me say that again. 3:54PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sylvain: All signed up. See you Tuesday, Fewix. 😉 3:55PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fewix: Shut up. I told you to stop calling me that.  3:57PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fewix: Thanks. 3:59PM </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sylvain: Anything, for you. 4:00PM </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Felix is right, they did need more people to sign up. </p><p>Sylvain shows up early, hoping to see Felix before the crowd gathers, but he’s disappointed on both counts. Less than a dozen others line the wall with him, and Felix only joins them when it’s a few minutes past one, carrying a box at Manuela’s side. </p><p>It’s a decently sized stage that he can see from the back where they enter. Professor Manuela leads the students down the ramp and into the seats of the first and second row, calling roll over the noises of backpacks and bookbags shuffling as they’re set down. Sylvain has barely settled in before she’s made her way through the list. The room seems cramped, even so, with how much energy his classmates are emanating. Sylvain gives them a wide berth, sliding in next to Felix all the way over in the corner on the end.</p><p>“Hey.” Sylvain starts off, greeting him cautiously. Striking up a face to face conversation with Felix in an active room still feels like a gamble—similar to extending your hand to a crouched back alley cat—but there’s a smile he only flashes when he’s next to Felix, and in the few times they’ve hung out it’s never failed him yet. Felix flips through a book he swiped from the box he carried as soon as he set it down and he raises an eyebrow, never removing his squint from the page. It’s very becoming on him; that intense focus is something Sylvain admires, but Sylvain would very much like to be involved in it. </p><p>The coat Felix is wearing is familiar. So familiar that Sylvain doesn’t think twice before he reaches out to stroke it with the three resolute fingers of his closest hand. The flash of that unique smile becomes absolutely blinding, stretching from ear to ear, positively seeping with the premonition of playful banter. </p><p>“You kept my coat warm for me.” </p><p>Felix’s breathing is definitely different. That’s a promising immediate sign. After some soul searching and dirt digging from his late night texts with Mercedes, Sylvain notices the subtle and not so subtle ways Felix expresses interest. His fingers are quick to turn the page, but press harder into the edges, for example, and it doesn’t take a keen eye to spot that his ears are red. </p><p>“You let me leave with it still on.” Felix retorts cooly and turns the page again. Sylvain isn’t convinced that he actually finished it. He was admittedly a little too distracted by the way Felix’s lips flattened and tensed. Sylvain would like nothing more than to open them up with his own, hear Felix tell him that he doesn’t know how he’s managed to live without it. He’d stop only for however long it took to tell Felix how he’s spent the last few years of his life without him fucking around, but Felix makes him want to change—makes him want to believe. Felix makes Sylvain want to fight for a world where they can be happy—together. </p><p>“You were cold.” Sylvain swallows. <em> Too close to the truth and yet so far. </em> “You didn’t have to wear it.”</p><p>Felix shuts the book and Sylvain startles, leaning away. Expecting a lecture more than a confession, he stares sheepishly, itching to raise his hands in a casual surrender behind his head. Manuela beats his reaction, easing into a glass shattering note to get the attention of the entire class, and most likely a few nearby in the hallway. Sylvain is pretty sure his ears are bleeding. After all the mischief he was bound to participate in this semester, they’ll never be the same. </p><p>“Warm ups today, and preparations for our first project. You’ll only be dismissed once you’ve come to me with a partner and your pick of the scene.” </p><p>There’s a mad scramble for people to meet up with the scene partner they already know they want to act with. Despite being an introductory class many appear to know each other. Freshmen from the same high school, probably. Who knows though? Sylvain has seen two absolute strangers go from introductions to tongue tying at some of these theatre parties within minutes. He’s picked the right crowd. </p><p>Sylvain stands and offers a hand to Felix that Felix places his open book into before he joins the crowd. The coat brushes against Sylvain’s wrist with how he nearly trips following Felix down to the center of the stage, feeling a little fuzzy as he reads off the name of the play Felix had obviously dog eared before, judging by the creases.</p><p>“The Taming of the Shrew?” He asks, puzzled, searching his brain for the little he remembered about Shakespeare from high school English. </p><p>“It’s misogynistic.” Felix shrugs his discomfort. “Most Shakespeare is, but that excerpt of the scene, I like.” <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em> || Act 2, scene 1  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Enter </em> <b> <em>Katherine</em> </b> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Petruchio</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <em> Good morrow, Kate—for that’s your name I hear. || </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sylvain takes a moment to read over it, skipping the questions he has for Felix to clarify later. At first, Felix busies himself by sweeping the loose items off to the side of the stage no one is using. He finishes before Sylvain is through thinking it over and leans against a stack of black boxes overflowing with props to wait. </p><p>It isn’t long before Sylvain feels the sharp penetration of Felix’s gaze boring into the back of his skull. Without their eyes even meeting, Felix is capable of wrapping his fist around his lungs to squeeze the act of breathing right out of him, and Sylvain is eager to let it happen. </p><p>Sylvain’s attention flickers to the trademark tight, black turtleneck underneath his open coat and then, to linger on the coat itself, because he’s never realized how much he loved it until he saw it on Felix. </p><p>“It suits you.” Sylvain says the first thing that pops into his mind, unexpectedly soft—poignant and honest. Despite, or truthfully <em> because of</em>, the fact that it’s at least one size too big, the coat carries well with Felix’s temperament. The faded, tawny suede draws a subtle contrast under the lighting against his ivory skin. The shoulders are relaxed, with enough room to spare to encourage extreme gesticulation if the scene calls for it, supporting a full range of movement across the stage. The fake fur lining the cuffs and neckline looks more than a few shades darker with his pallor, and even more handsome when accompanied by the faint peach dusting of his cheeks.</p><p>“Do you want it back or not?”</p><p>The question hits somewhere between a temptation and a vague threat. Sylvain’s palms become sweaty almost immediately. Felix comes closer, without a prompt or an answer, and it would be easy, <em> so easy, </em>for Sylvain to reach out and sink his fingers into the raised fur of his collar, slide it off his shoulders, press their chests together to see how Felix really feels about him by tracking the way their heartbeats compete. It would be so easy. However, Sylvain reminds himself, it would also be wrong.</p><p>“Wait, hold on.” Sylvain holds up a hand once Felix has made it within a few feet of him. It’s hard not to judge how much of Felix’s sharp jaw he could cover if he were to cup his face and bend down for a kiss. Maybe he could flip through the collection of scenes until he reached a naughty one and find out. “Don’t be in such a hurry to return it. Give me a few minutes to enjoy myself.”</p><p>Patience is Sylvain’s least favorite virtue, but courage is a common vein that they share. Felix is a force like a meteor to be followed and here, he is in his greatest element. Sylvain continues to observe him diligently, spending all of the gold in his heart on wishes and hopes. The alluring luster of honey melts into amber for a few seconds of serenity before a rusted chandelier falls and the couple retreats from the spotlight, palms clinging to their ears, faces scrunched to try and avoid breathing in the dust. </p><p>“Save your lines for later.” Felix’s throat is a little scratchy. Sylvain is going to pretend it’s the presence of him rather than allergies that makes his super sexy scene partner rasp. Actors are supposed to amp themselves up, right? Take the seed of something believable and plant it, water it little by little with concrete choices while the audience experiences it bloom. </p><p>Even so, the simple fantasy of Felix’s blunt directions carrying a second meaning shouldn’t sound so attractive. </p><p>“I think you should keep the coat. It looks better on you than it ever did on me.” Sylvain was sure that would be true of anything Felix wore, but it’s their first day and he’s actually getting Felix to banter with him and he doesn’t want to push it—yet. </p><p>“Fine. I will. Just stop bringing it up.”</p><p><em> Sure. </em> Sylvain doesn’t bother correcting Felix over the fact that it was <em> him </em> that started the conflict. He’s enjoying himself too much and the class has hardly even started. </p><p>It’s then that Felix removes the coat to reveal that the turtleneck is sleeveless. He reaches out to take the book back from Sylvain. Underneath his usual cover, Felix is muscled, yet lean. He can feel just how much when Felix brushes against him, side to side, warm and real and ready to illustrate. </p><p>Sylvain nearly faints. </p><p>Felix is the one who approaches Manuela and turns in the book for two faded printed copies of the scene. Sylvain spends a good hour that night tracing some of the same lines while he mouths them as many times as it takes to make them his own. </p>
<hr/><p>
  <em> Petruchio: What times are you available to meet up and practice? 10:52PM </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Kate: Does this Friday work? 11:10 PM </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Petruchio: Friday is perfect. 11:11 PM </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Friday creeps up on Sylvain stealthier than the Ides of March crept up on Julius Caesar. He knows enough about both now to determine that a stab in the back from a friend is nothing like a stab to the heart from the one and only Felix Hugo Fraldarius. </p><p>Felix plays any idea he puts his mind to like he was born for it. Sylvain is determined, but clumsier, and slower to the draw in comparison. It isn’t supposed to be a stakeout but damn if there weren’t too many times to count now that practicing in class felt like it, the way Manuela hovered over them. In fact, a lot of the other students did the same, becoming distracted by their own scenes at a few of “Kate's” particularly loud outbursts. There was a natural chemistry between him and Felix that grew with repetition; it was difficult for anyone to ignore. At least, that’s how it looks to Sylvain.</p><p>March rains arrive, saturating the soil. The tiny ghosts of buds flowering become corporeal. </p><p>On their final weekend before the performance, Felix invites Sylvain to his room.</p><p>It’s plain and unassuming, save for a few pictures of a younger Felix and someone who looks very similar to the Felix he sees now. Their eyes are blue and their hair is thicker and wavier, Sylvain supposes, but then again, he’d never seen Felix with his hair completely down other than at the cast party—and he was under a full pound of makeup and hair products. </p><p>“My brother.” Felix provides without prompting. It’s a full flat affect, which means Sylvain was going to let it go without prying. He still can’t help himself from stretching obnoxiously on the bed, showing off his tummy hair and flexibility in one motion.</p><p>“I can see the similarity.” He nods to the picture and then to Felix, who’s pushing his feet off and to the ground again, grumbling by the edge. As if that would deter Sylvain. Felix is the cutest when he’s pretending not to care. </p><p>Sylvain scoots over. “Gotta say I prefer this one though.” </p><p>Felix’s arms dangle casually where he leans, script ignored between them, legs slightly spread. The distance is meant to be a deterrent, but it looks to Sylvain like an invitation. It looks to Sylvain like he could either lose his head in one wrong move or gain everything he’s been looking for in a flash of lighting—of skin purpling skin. </p><p>“Do you ever stop flirting?” Felix asks with an inflection that maybe, <em> maybe, </em> sounds like he doesn’t want it to be true. The answer, of course, is no. <em> No, but it would only be for you, if you wanted me to.  </em></p><p>Felix isn’t ready to hear that answer. Sylvain isn’t ready to give it. He likes the mystery of teasing Felix when he doesn’t know the full truth of how he feels about the matter. He likes the idea of teasing his way into a full on confession if he’s being honest—likes it so much. </p><p>“C’mon.” Sylvain lays a hand on Felix’s shoulder. “I know you don’t see me like that, Fe.” </p><p>It’s shrugged off within a second. Felix’s face is red; his eyes are wide and dark and in Sylvain’s opinion, hungry. “Don’t assume things.” He hisses and <em> oh, </em>what a pretty little thing he is when he’s on the verge of vulnerability. Sylvain wants to swallow him.</p><p>“Alright. I won’t assume.” Sylvain starts slowly, pulling his hand back, knocking the scripts to the floor—they’d already memorized the scene days after the assignment. “As long as you tell me.” He pauses. Waits. Carefully. Patiently. Felix’s fingers are within reach. Sylvain could grab them and bring them to his lips if he wanted to—run his hot breath along the knuckles and capture the fist in a kiss. </p><p>He wants to, and he does.</p><p>“Tell me a secret.” He murmurs, electricity bobbing in the nervous swell of his throat. “Something you’ve never told anybody before.” </p><p>“<em>You— </em>” For once, Felix’s mouth fails him, falling slack as he trembles and refuses to look anywhere but the furthest wall. “You first.” </p><p>“Okay.” Every little press of the lips is like a punch to his gut. Felix is weakening beside him—giving into it. Finally, some kind of promise that at the very least Sylvain may not leave this alone. “I like you.” </p><p>Felix snorts.“That’s not a secret.” The scarlet fever has spread to his ears. Soon, it will creep down his neck until sweat starts to glisten in his collarbones. Oh, how Sylvain wants to be the only one to see Felix like that—the only one to wipe it away. </p><p>He laughs instead. “Fair enough.” Sylvain’s hand covers Felix’s hand, fingers extending to brush the length of his wrist. “I haven’t explicitly told anybody I’m gay, but it’s easy to see I’d be anything for you, Felix.”</p><p>Felix takes a long time before he responds, but Sylvain isn’t worried. This is the kind of thinking that can’t be rushed, he should know. For the past half of a year, this has been his territory.</p><p>“I’m not—a man—not exactly. So, you wouldn’t have to be <em> anything, </em>I guess. If you didn’t want to.”</p><p>Well, this is news to him. Sylvain doesn’t know what to say to that. Another fresh idea to grapple with. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>Felix pulls his hand free and finally turns to find Sylvain, sitting close enough to rest his thighs upon his knees, if they both went for it. </p><p>“For years now, I’ve <em> privately </em> considered myself to be Agender.” All the self control in the world couldn’t keep Sylvain from sucking in a breath when Felix’s fingers take up a new favorite activity, stroking his stubbled jaw. “So there.” Felix smiles—a real smile, one that melts Sylvain into a puddle on the sheets before they even get to ruin them. “A secret.”</p><p>The wheels in Sylvain’s head stick, then turn again, then stick in a cycle that he works overtime to keep going. “So your gender is…” he trails off, trying to understand what Felix is saying beyond the surface of his words. </p><p>“No.” It’s the shortest and the freest of all the words Sylvain’s heard. Felix’s mouth stays open once the vibration has fallen from it and Sylvain realizes that <em> this, </em> this tomato-faced, blunt, and tenacious person who stares at him like he wouldn’t dare to contradict something so important is the Felix he loves. Sylvain <em> loves </em> them. “Isn’t. My gender is nonexistent. People see what they want to see, but who I am and what I become doesn’t factor into that.”</p><p>Sylvain can get behind that even if he doesn’t get it. He can, because there’s not a day in his life that Felix doesn’t shine a spotlight on the ways he’s forgotten how to be unapologetically authentic. He’d shown him how to apply the past to the present as well. Some pains will never be allowed to repeat themselves now that he’s seen them. </p><p>“Would you like me to change any of the ways I refer to you?” Felix is so close by now that it seems appropriate for Sylvain to whisper. Sylvain wants to awaken something in him, but slowly, <em> slowly</em>, always accounting for the disaster of overstepping his boundaries by just a little too much. </p><p>“Not really. All pronouns are fine.” Felix hesitates, swirling the request around in the nervous energy surrounding the anticipation in the air. “Call me by my name.” <em> I want you to. </em> That’s the message Felix’s body betrays. <em> “ </em>Whenever you can.”</p><p>Sylvain’s body responds with a message of its own, lips on the crook of Felix’s neck, then his ear. Then, in a joyous rumble that claims him from the shiver he erupts into. </p><p>“<em>F</em><em>elix.” </em> He tries it out a few times; the same name but it feels different now. Sylvain rolls it around on his tongue, pausing at the points where he finds it makes Felix jump. A moment against the high angle of his cheekbone, a nibble at the tip of the nose. The longest comes when their foreheads bump together and their breath is one, circular temptation—dangerous. It’s <em> dangerous.</em> </p><p>“Tell me what you really mean.” <em>What I really want to hear.</em> Sylvain whispers, stroking the braid over Felix’s shoulder. Felix’s breath hitches, temporarily losing momentum, before he snatches it again—snatches it from the ashes to rekindle the fire. He climbs the final rung in the ladder, and settles into the center of Sylvain’s lap.</p><p>“Fine. Dumbass. <em> Whateverilikeyou.” </em>The entire mashed up admission lasts no longer than it takes to close the gap and then he is kissing him, and Sylvain forgets. He forgets what any other tension is like once the barrier is broken. The rain outside continues to smack against the ground, giving life to future foliage, but he cannot hear it, because inside the tiny universe of their bodies, the hearth roars on. </p><p>Felix's legs are straddling his legs, hunter eyes locked directly on its prey and there are so many things to say that Sylvain doesn’t say, not now, <em> later, </em>because <em>there</em> <em> will be </em> a later. There will be a trove of situations where Sylvain pulls the “not now, later” card but in this very first hand, Felix tugs at the collar of his shirt and <em> whines. </em>It’s very important to Sylvain that no matter what happens, Felix keeps doing that. </p><p>“<em>S</em><em>weetheart.” </em> Tenderness is the only way, his instinct tells him, to capture Felix before he retreats. His love gasps and breaks anyway, bearing swollen lips and little hiccups and a hint of tears that make Sylvain’s heart wrench out of reach. “<em>Baby, </em>what do you need?” </p><p>“Don’t.” Felix’s fist finds enough fabric to twist Sylvain closer, heart pounding the wild and irreplaceable truth against his ribs. “Don’t call me that.”</p><p>Smoothing Felix’s eyebrows is a simple task. Sylvain tries to make the question just as agreeable. “What would you like me to call you?” </p><p>Felix shivers, a memoir from the first time he let Sylvain touch him, both under a thin sheet of snow. He shivers, except now instead of the freezing and the birthplace of their longing it is a boiling hot reaction and an open desire for <em> Sylvain.  </em></p><p>“I want you to use my name again.” This time it’s not a confession and it’s not a request. It’s a declaration—in body and in spirit. Felix’s nails leave outlines where they cling to Sylvain’s back. </p><p>“You got it.”</p><p>Velvet smooth with the hook of a smile, Sylvain drags his favorite name up the arch of Felix’s neck. He hoists Felix into the air so he can look at him properly, map out all of the vulnerable places he’s going to mark.</p><p>“<em>Felix.</em>”</p>
<hr/><p>The phone call with his father lasts less than two minutes. Sylvain steps out between his short lunch break to make it. It’s one of the most terrifying decisions of his life, but at the end of it, Sylvain is free.</p><p>Felix kisses him like the sun would disappear if he didn’t. Sylvain is drawn to the natural rotation of the way Felix’s jaw thumps against his every time he gets too involved, knowing that when they part, Felix’s pupils will be wide enough for the light to take shelter in. It’s a gateway for Sylvain to search at leisure while they become just as acquainted with each other’s bodies as their souls. </p><p>Sometimes, change comes in the slow build of a current, rising to your waist. Sometimes, change comes on suddenly, in multitudes. Sometimes, you have to choose to change even when there’s a sea of toxins and doubt spread before you—for good. Sylvain is cut off from his father and that means he’s cut off from any money that isn’t already in his bank account, but there’s a bounce in his step as he heads to the financial aid office after the registrar approves his intention to switch to a Technical Theatre degree. He doesn’t need to fight down the burn of spite that makes him miserable. He doesn’t need to inherit the poison. </p><p>He does need to throw his own hat into the ring. When the next fall production is announced, Felix convinces him to audition. Sylvain goes into it expecting nothing more than a cute couple’s activity, and comes out of it with both of their names on the cast list of Hamlet. It’s the first hurdle taken of a long race he’d bet on before but never believed he could run. </p><p>Thursday nights are late, spent with sweat and the near constant task of keeping up with the rest of the crew. There’s a lot left to learn with no end in sight, but Sylvain discovers what it’s like to find contentment alongside exhaustion. Friday mornings are early, equal smiles and grumbles as Felix disentangles from their mountain of limbs. When the weekend comes, Sylvain pulls him back in for five more minutes—again and again and again.</p><p>Nothing in his new life can compare to that. Felix is his. <em> His</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am on <a href="http://twitter.com/thefriedpipes">twitter</a>! Come talk more about fe3h with me 🤗</p></blockquote></div></div>
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